


There is no point in maybes

by MarauderCracker



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aventine, M/M, Nothing particularly romantic here, Post-Canon, separate settlement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarauderCracker/pseuds/MarauderCracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks out of the fence, at the almost complete darkness that starts with the forest, twenty feet away from the edge of Aventine, where the light of their fires can't reach. "Hey," Miller's voice is barely louder than the whisper of the wind, but it still startles him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is no point in maybes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semele/gifts).



Winter still lingers --the snow is melting, but the sun doesn't manage to warm the earth for long and the nights are still freezing. The grip of the revolver is ice cold when he grazes it --still reassuring, though it almost burns his fingertips. He looks out of the fence, at the almost complete darkness that starts with the forest, twenty feet away from the edge of Aventine, where the light of their fires can't reach.

"Hey," Miller's voice is barely louder than the whisper of the wind, but it still startles him. It takes Monty a second to make out his face with the light of the fire shining from behind him, to loosen his fingers and let the gun fall back into its holster. Miller is wearing only a jacket over his usual clothes, shoulders hunched over, hands in his pockets. Monty can tell that the tension in his jaw is --at least in part-- from trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Hey," he whispers back, and Miller falls into step at Monty's side. His right shoulder brushes Monty's left as they continue the patrol around camp and, for a while, the only sounds are their steps, the crackling fire and the constant whistle of the wind trying to get under their clothes. Monty keeps his left hand in his pocket, the right hovering over the gun holster still.

"Something is near," Miller whispers, gripping Monty's wrist and pulling him away from the light of the fire. Monty listens, and the sound of a branch cracking reaches his ears. The sounds are close to the edge of the forest --rustling leaves, tiny branches breaking under the weight of something or someone's feet. Monty draws his gun out slowly.

In the thirty seconds of tense waiting that follow, with his hands gripping the revolver and Nathan standing just a few inches behind him --unarmed, jaw tense to keep his teeth from chattering, breathing quick and shallow just like Monty himself is-- he thinks that he never wants to hold a gun again. He has his fingers on the trigger and he thinks that he hates guns, and patrols, and this fence that is meant to keep out humans instead of animals, and the war that never seems to end. A dark silhouette moves at the very end of the forest, and he aims the gun at it. 

The horse stumbles out of the shadows, a piece of chain-mail armor over its back, the reins hanging loose from its mouth. It's too dark to know for sure, but the way it walks tells Monty the animal must be injured. "We don't have bullets to spare," Nathan reminds him, probably guessing that Monty would rather just put the beast out of its misery. Alerted by their voices, the animal neighs and turns around, disappearing again into the forest.

"The rider is probably nearby," Monty says. Probably dead, of course, but they know this already. Monty holsters his weapon again, but keeps an eye out on the woods as they start walking again. Whatever attacked the horse can't be too far, either.

"I'm gon' get my gun," Miller says, probably having the same thought. He flashes a tired grin at Monty before turning away. "And a scarf or something," he adds as he's walking away, and Monty feels some of the tension on his shoulders leave him when he snorts.

Miller comes jogging back to his side a short minute later, nose buried in a red scarf that Monty distinctly remembers as being Bellamy's. The revolver is tucked at the waist of his jeans, a flash of metal that catches Monty's eyes for a second and is quickly covered by Miller's sweater. Somewhere in the back of Monty's head there's the knowledge that Miller was one of the few of them who knew how to shoot a gun before getting to the ground. The memory of when, exactly, Monty turned into a decent shot seems to have vanished.

"What time is it?" Miller asks after they've completed another round around camp in silence. Monty is carrying one of the only two working watches they have --the other is with Harper, who's replacing him at six. The green numbers tell him it's ten to five. The sun's been rising around eight lately and there is no moon in the sky. He knows that Miller looks tired because they all look tired, but his face is all shadows as they take a turn around a group of tents and away from the fire at the center of the camp. Finally, a couple minutes after Monty told him the time, Nathan speaks up again. "When do you think they'll attack?"

He doesn't bother joking, hoping that maybe they won't. They're right in the frontier, right at the very heart of a war that they want no part of and they have no way to escape. There is no point in maybes. Instead, he reaches his freezing hand and Miller takes it, shaking fingers clutching his for a few seconds. 

They let go slowly, and resume walking the perimeter. 


End file.
